


Sober

by Wolftraps (AlwaysBoth)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysBoth/pseuds/Wolftraps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some reason, when Derek practically tucked Stiles into bed, drunk off his ass, and told him to call the next time he wanted to get drunk, he'd sort of though that would be the end of it. The overtures of pseudo-friendship had been made, but realistically, Stiles would just go back to Scott, make up, and he and Derek would only see each other again the next time there was a crisis.</p>
<p>Instead, he gets a call around midnight some three weeks later</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sober

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piscaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Whiskey Haze](https://archiveofourown.org/works/524883) by [Piscaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria). 



> Following the events of [Whiskey Haze](http://archiveofourown.org/works/524883)

For some reason, when Derek practically tucked Stiles into bed, drunk off his ass, and told him to call the next time he wanted to get drunk, he'd sort of though that would be the end of it. The overtures of pseudo-friendship had been made, but realistically, Stiles would just go back to Scott, make up, and he and Derek would only see each other again the next time there was a crisis.  
  
Instead, he gets a call around midnight some three weeks later, audio shitty from a poor connection. Still, he can hear the noises of the forest around Stiles when it's clear.  
  
"Heeeey," Stiles greets a little overenthusiastically when Derek answers. "You said- when I wanted to g- but I kind of started al- y- thought I'd co- and you're not here. Where are you?"  
  
" _Home_ , Stiles. Where are _you?_ " Half the words didn't come through, but Derek has a fairly good idea what's going on. He sighs, getting up from his bed to slip on shoes and grab his keys.  
  
"No, you're no- _I'm_ home. I mean, _your_ home. I mean- nyway, you're definitely no- and _dude_ , what'd you do to your door?"  
  
"Nothing," Derek says tersely and catches himself just in time to keep from yanking the car door open hard enough to damage it. "Stiles, I'm on my way. Just _stay there,_ okay?"  
  
"Wha- Dude, you're bre-ing up. I'm gonna -all you back, 'kay?"  
  
"Stiles, no. Just-" but Derek's phone beeps to signal the disconnect. He speeds, more than he should, and barely avoids getting pulled over by the sheriff himself, thinking of all the places Stiles could end up seriously hurt wandering the preserve drunk.  
  
When he gets there, though, Stiles is fine, sitting on the front steps of Derek's old house and reeking of cinnamon and alcohol.  
  
"Heeey, buddy," Stiles says with a grin, completely ignoring Derek's scowl. "I knocked, but you weren't home."  
  
"I don't live here anymore, Stiles," Derek says flatly. He steps up and snatches the half empty bottle of Goldschläger from Stiles' hands, and ignores the indignant "hey!" that he gets for it. "Did you drink all of this?"  
  
"Nah, man, just like half. Or… four sevenths. Seven 'lev'nths? No-"  
  
"Stiles," Derek snaps, and Stiles' rambling cuts off. "I'm not buying you a replacement for this."  
  
"S'okay," Stiles waves dismissively at him. "Stole it fr'm Jackson anyway."  
  
"From Jackson."  
  
"Yeah. 'S a party at his place. End a' year or goin' away or somethin'." Isaac may have said something about a party, but Derek had pretty much stopped paying attention after he said he was meeting up with Scott. Scott would watch out for him, for tonight he wasn't Derek's worry. Though apparently now they've swapped for Stiles.  
  
Stiles, who is now hanging around the burned out shell of Derek's childhood home while more than a little buzzed, at least two miles from Jackson's house.  
  
"How did you get here?" If Stiles drove even _half_ this inebriated, there's going to be hell to pay. Derek will march him straight back to his dad if necessary.  
  
"Borrowed Scott's bike?" That's hardly better at all. And sounds highly suspect on top of it.  
  
"Borrowed?"  
  
"Yeah, definitely." Stiles nods to emphasize and his whole upper body sort of sways with the movement. Derek resists the urge to reach out and steady him; he's being stern here. "Borrowed. Scott and I have a sort of… what's mine is yours, uh, thing. Hey, if you don' live here, where _do_ you live? Y're not still in that train are you?"  
  
"I have an apartment. Stiles, _why are you here?_ "  
  
"You said I'm part of the werewolf club, right?" Stiles says, and he sounds so pleading. "I just- don't feel like much of a member these days. So could- I don't know. I'm-" he trails off.  
  
Derek holds out a hand to pull Stiles up off the stairs, catching and steadying him when he comes up too fast and almost sends himself toppling forward. "Come on, let's get you home."  
  
Maneuvering up the stairs is an exercise in ineptitude, an awkward fit with them side by side and Stiles still unsteady, but they finally manage with only a few bruises on Stiles' part to show for it. And he doesn't seem too worried about them. The rest of it goes relatively smooth.  
  
"The woods were so quiet," Stiles mumbles as he slips off his shoes and crawls into bed, not even bothering to trade jeans for sleepwear. "They're never that quiet."  
  
Derek turns off the light and closes the window behind him on the way out. When he gets home, he puts the Goldschläger in the back of his cupboard next to the bottle of Jack. It's not like Jackson needs it back. He goes to bed wondering about Stiles' final comment.  
  
In the morning, well, closer to noon, he gets a text. It just says 'sry. thnx.' Derek doesn't respond.  
  
\----  
  
  
The next times it happens, Stiles is in the school, his feet splashing in the pool while he sits perched on the edge and takes fairly frequent swigs from a flask that smells like rubbing alcohol.  
  
"You shouldn't be in here," Derek tells him, and Stiles laughs a bit excessively.  
  
"You're _always_ here when y' shouldn' be," he says. Then, excitedly, "Hey! Hey, rememem- rm- remember when we sp'nt like _two hours_ here so th' k'nima woudn' eat us? My arms hurt for like _three days_ aft'r that. Good times." He takes another swig, then reluctantly relinquishes the flask when Derek hold his hand out for it.  
  
"Is your Jeep here?"  
  
"Yeah. Hey!" Stiles says, loud enough to echo, when Derek screws on the flask cap and goes to put it in his pocket. "You can't keep tha' one. 's Coach's."  
  
"I'm pretty sure I couldn't even find a moonshine strong enough to replace this."  
  
"'s- it's okay. Coach'll only care whodunnit if we take th' flask."  
  
Derek rolls his eyes and puts it in his pocket anyway for the time being. He can take care of it later. "I'm taking you home now."  
  
"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "Wait, no-" he pushes himself up a bit too hard and almost goes diving straight into the pool. Would have, if Derek didn't grab him at the last second and pull him back. And he just sort of leans into Derek for a touch too long with this odd smile, like Derek is some giant teddy bear and not six feet of solid muscle.  
  
"You're an idiot," Derek tells him, and Stiles just kind of hums agreeingly. "Why can't I take you home?"  
  
"Dad thinks 'm at Scottss."  
  
"Why aren't you?"  
  
"Where's Isaac tonight?" Right.  
  
Derek puts the flask back where it belongs and bundles Stiles into his car again. He falls asleep halfway to Derek's apartment, and it's tempting to just take him home, hand him off to the sheriff before this becomes a real problem. But then, he'd also have to explain to the sheriff why Derek has his drunk, unconscious, underage son when Stiles is supposed to be at Scott's.  
  
So he takes Stiles to the loft, sets him up on his side on the couch with a glass of water and a trash basket in reach, and goes back for the Jeep. Stiles stirs briefly, when Derek checks on him before going to bed himself, and his smile looks sad now.  
  
"Sorry," he whispers. "Y're a good fr'nd."  
  
  
Derek wakes up when Stiles does the next morning, but doesn't get up right away. Instead, he listens to Stiles chug two glasses of water and move carefully around the kitchen. The smell of toast and eggs finally draws him out. There's a plate for him, scrambled and cooling fast, and Derek can read the apology in it.  
  
When Stiles moves to do the dishes, Derek takes his plate from him, and Stiles lets it go with a small nod and a quiet "thanks". Whether the silence is due to awkwardness or a hangover, Derek isn't sure, but it doesn't really matter. Stiles lets himself out before long.  
  
Derek doesn't realize the bottle of Goldschläger is gone until Isaac asks him why he has a bottle of Jack in the cupboard a week later.  
  
\----  
  
  
"You're an idiot," Derek tells him again. It's not even the first time tonight.  
  
"I know," Stiles says and hisses when Derek pulls the bandage a little too tight. His fingers dig into the arm of the couch. Derek kind of hates the smell of cinnamon lingering in the air, on Stiles' breath.  
  
"Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"  
  
"No! Not- not really." Derek's head snaps up, but Stiles won't look him in the eye, staring just about anywhere else and fidgeting under Derek's hands until he puts one on Stiles' knee to still the bouncing.  
  
"Not _really?_ " It's hard to keep the anger from his voice, and he definitely doesn't manage, but it's better than letting Stiles know how terrified that one sentence makes him.  
  
"I'm just tired of being scared, okay? I'm so sick of just _waiting_ for something bad to happen, like I'm always on the verge of a panic attack. So- so maybe I go looking for it. And maybe it's stupid. But I can't just not do anything."  
  
Derek ties off the bandage and looks at Stiles. _Really_ looks. He can feel it, the fear, the nervous energy buzzing through him that Derek had always thought was just an inherent part of _Stiles_. But then, at this point, maybe it is. He sighs, packing up the first aid kit and setting it by the door for Stiles to put back in the Jeep whenever he leaves.  
  
"Is your dad expecting you back tonight?" Stiles nods. "I'll drive you back. And Stiles? I'm serious. Next time, _call me first_."  
  
\----  
  
  
"I need a drink," Stiles says right as he picks up, and Derek sighs. He's on the other side of town from his apartment, and only halfway through his canvass of the area.  
  
"You know where I live," he says. "I'll meet you there."  
  
He isn't really surprised to find Stiles sprawled on the couch, already clutching the bottle of Jack, when he gets there. And he's not going to bother asking how Stiles got in, since he'll get some odd non-answer. It's hardly the worst he's been, though. He grins and talks too loud, too much but his eyes don't seem to be too unfocused when he follows Derek to the table.  
  
"Y're a good guy, for a former murder suspect," Stiles informs him, and apparently takes Derek's 'what the fuck, Stiles?' expression as disbelief. "No, really! Y' keep helping me out, 'n I'm still pretty sure you don't even like me most of the time."  
  
"Just because you're a pain in my ass most of the time doesn't mean I don't like you, Stiles." Stiles snorts into the bottle and Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother trying to rephrase. It would only make it worse. Instead he just marks off another section on the map.  
  
"You liiiiike me," Stiles crows, bumping into Derek's side, and stumbling into the table when Derek doesn't budge. "Hey, I never paid you back. Sure you don't wanna make out?"  
  
"I'm not making out with you while you're drunk, Stiles."  
  
"Ah hah! When I'm _drunk_. So you'll make out with me when I'm sober? And whyyy do you have a map of Beacon Hills on your table?"  
  
"I'm canvassing. Boyd and Erica are still missing." Derek intentionally ignores Stiles' first question. Growing up around werewolves, you tend to avoid straight out lying. Stiles' face falls. They don't revisit either topic again, and there's still almost a quarter of the bottle left when Stiles falls asleep on the couch.  
  
\----  
  
  
Derek shouldn't be encouraging him. But on some level, it feels like Stiles' drinking is all that's tying them together anymore, and there's a sort of panic when he thinks of losing that. And fear, because if he tells Stiles to stop and Stiles won't- Derek has no doubt Stiles can get it another way, and then there will be no one there if he gets himself in trouble again.  
  
So he buys another bottle of Jack. And the next time Stiles calls, he fills up the original bottle to a third and brings it to him, hoping it's enough that Stiles won't ask for more.  
  
For some reason, there's an awkwardness between them when Derek passes off the bottle. It feels like he should stay, keep an eye on Stiles and make sure he's still alright at the end of the night. But the flat "thanks" Stiles gives him and the way he avoids Derek's eyes don't speak to a welcome. So Derek only hesitates for a moment before letting himself out.  
  
  
He doesn't hear from Stiles for another two weeks, and then Derek comes home to find him already in the apartment, poring over the map. There's a glass of whiskey on the table, still full, but the bottle is nowhere in sight.  
  
"Hey," Stiles greets him, voice steady, not a hint of slurring. "I know you've probably got a system going, but I had a couple ideas. I'd like to help."  
  
"Why?" It probably sounds rude, but Derek is genuinely curious. Stiles doesn't seem to take offense.  
  
"I just- I need something to _do_ , you know? Stop sitting around waiting for something bad to happen or going out looking for it. And helping out a friend seems like a good way. Got to find the rest of the werewolf club, right?" Derek nods and goes to stand next to Stiles and mark off the areas he searched today. When Stiles leaves that night, the glass is still full, and Derek can't help but smile when he pours it down the sink.  
  
The next time, there's a glass of water in its place.  
  
\----  
  
  
"I'm sorry," Stiles tells him a few weeks later, putting a comforting hand on Derek's arm, while he stares intently at the map, looking for something, _anything_ he could have missed.  
  
"Hey," Stiles says, drawing him away slightly, and Derek can feel some of his frustration drain when he sees the stubborn set of Stiles' shoulder. "We'll think of something. It's not like we're known for going down easy, right?" Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles answers with a smile. "You want me to stick around? I told Scott I'd hang with him tonight, but he's bailed on me enough times."  
  
Derek shakes his head. "Thanks. Now get out of my house."  
  
It's a thing of wonder, how Stiles laughs with his whole body, and makes the room a bit brighter. Derek follows him out to his Jeep, intending to take a run, if only to clear his head, and he thinks of the smell of Mountain Dew clinging to Stiles and the bottle of whiskey in this cupboard, still mostly full.  
  
"You know," Derek tells Stiles before he can climb in the Jeep. "You never did pay me back for that whiskey."  
  
Stiles smirks. "Hey, I offered. You're the one who declined my method of payment."  
  
"I declined it while you were drunk," Derek corrects him, and Stiles freezes, gapes. "I think I'd like to collect now, unless you're retracting the offer?"  
  
His answer is Stiles' arms around his neck and a sort of obscene slide of Stiles' lips against his own that he really wasn't prepared for. And it tastes like caffeine and curly fries and feels like joy and clarity.  
  
They only break apart when Stiles' phone chimes with a text from Scott. Stiles stares at it, conflicted, until Derek physically turns him toward the Jeep and tells him to go.  
  
"But we'll continue this later, right? Like, can I come over tomorrow?"  
  
"Could I stop you?" Derek asks incredulously.  
  
"No, probably not," Stiles admits, and hesitates before pulling Derek back in for another short kiss. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
"Tomorrow," Derek agrees. When he gets home from his run, he pours out the whiskey, and neither of them ever mention it again. Stiles gets his fix in other ways.


End file.
